


Mistletoe

by Wallflower671



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Marvel Cinematic Universe, Norse Religion & Lore, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Crossover, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-21
Updated: 2016-05-21
Packaged: 2018-06-09 17:06:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6915793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wallflower671/pseuds/Wallflower671
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry's always had an extreme reaction to mistletoe. A response to Modern Sorcerer's Changeling Challenge.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mistletoe

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger warnings: vomit, children abuse.  
> Unbeta'd.

**Mistletoe**

* * *

His earliest memory begins at four-five.

Like an old tape reel there's a sort of whiteness where everything before four-five has happened and, somewhere in the middle (always the middle, never the beginning or the very end) his life it seems, abruptly starts.

Aunt Marge has come over to stay. She's big like a whale and has a bushy mustache. She brings her vicious hellhounds, fat with rolls, black eyes like hot coals and gleaming, pointed teeth straight from a nightmare. Because Aunt Petunia hates dogs, especially drooling dogs like Aunt Marge's, she tells Harry to take them outside.

He does.

Aunt Marge gives him no leash. Aunt Petunia shuts the sliding door. Dark clouds cover the entire sky, promising loads and loads of rain. Of course, as soon as he steps outside the rain falls in buckets.

Harry stares at the dogs.

The dogs stare at Harry.

One… two… thre— _run_!

Harry runs with the hellhounds biting at his heels, chilling growls that make his heart beat and quicken his breath. The dogs just seconds behind him.

_FasterFasterFaster_

He's not stupid. Aunt Petunia's yard is like a cage with high wooden fences, damp wooden fences too soggy to climb, and a sopping yard with nowhere to hide, but plenty of places to slip.

But there's a tree. A single tree that Aunt Petunia refuses to cut down because it's pretty, because no one else on their block has one, because it makes the neighbors jealous. So, it's obvious he has to climb. He's always been a good climber; Harry-hunting has made him an expert.

One foot in that grove. A well-placed hand right there. Lift yourself up, and you're climbing. Easy as 1, 2, 3. Up, Up, Up, he goes until he's very near the top and his bum is rested on a sturdy tree branch.

Shivering and soaked, he looks down at the hellhounds. Their paws helplessly scratching the tree trunk. Teeth snapping around air and their great leaps as they try to somehow drag him down.

 _Hahaha!_ he laughs. His legs swinging, he sticks his tongue out.

_Nah Nah, you can't get me up here!_

The dogs stare at Harry.

Harry stares at the dogs.

They start to prowl around the base of the tree like sharks scenting blood, just waiting for their prey to falter. An antsy feeling squirms in Harry's stomach, how long must he stay up here?

He's hungry.

There are sticky berries to the left of him, they're white as paste, small and round, he can't help pick one or two, or three or four, popping a berry into his mouth as he picks. They're sweet on his tongue, a tingle following his swallow, he can't help his appetite. He hasn't eaten all day.

By the tenth berry his stomach disagrees. The tingle in his mouth a spiteful buzz. He coughs, hacking up small white skins and thick, green liquid.

His vision blurs.

He can't breathe.

His skin burns.

Hot, Hot, Hot.

He manages one great yell.

He tumbles to the ground, where he falls in a sickening heap: gasping, choking— _AIR!_ —loud barks as the dogs tear into him and it rains, rains, rains…

* * *

 

This is the best summer ever, Harry's sure. Dudley has a new gaming system he plays morning and night, no attention paid to him. Aunt Petunia decides his cleaning isn't up to her standards, and Uncle Vernon never speaks to him, unless he wants the mail or a beer from the fridge.

Harry's time is spent outside. His favorite spot is in the driveway. It's the perfect canvas: black as tar, very easy to see his creations. Beside Harry is a couple of rocks and a rainbow collection of chalk.

Green is his favorite color, he uses it as he writes his name in his best print. He also draws a family of stick figures, two crows, a loom, a football, a box, and even plays a game of tic-tac-toe. He's a very accomplished artist, thank you very much.

He never sees Uncle Vernon getting into his company truck. He never hears the roar of the engine.

Vernon never checks his mirrors.

Harry begins a rainbow, it's going to be a bridge. Vernon backs up.

There's a ringing sound like two car crashes. A couple of crunches. Harry's pained scream.

The neighbors come rushing out, hands covering their mouths and are children shooed back inside. Petunia is out and running, half-dressed.

Harry is on the ground, fat tears roll down his cheeks at the sight of his splintered chalk.

A little further away from Harry, in the middle of the road, are the remains of the truck. The loud blaring of the car's alarm, like a siren, encompassing the whole of Privet Drive. Vernon's company truck is smushed together from the back, gouged chunks of metal, black and silver. The windows smashed in. The white airbags ballooning out.

Vernon is alive. A couple of scratches. A sore neck. No big deal.

He comes out the car and catches Petunia in his arms, she sobs into his neck. Vernon pats her with a big hand, absently cooing calming words. His eyes on the Boy still in the middle of the driveway, crying.

He can't comprehend. He's seeing a ghost.

"Th-The Boy, he's… alright."

"Fine Vernon," Petunia says, she pulls back to give him a critical once over. "What about you, how did that even…"

"I… I… he was in the driveway, I should of …" the words are somehow gone because Vernon had looked too late, the truck had been rolling back—the Boy was there—he should've been flattened under the tires— and then the car was violently forced back, like a great gust of wind, pushed and thrown up the vehicle in the air, twisting and spinning…

Vernon's face twitches. He holds Petunia closer. "Nothing to worry about Pet, just a _freak_ accident."

* * *

 

"Tricky customer eh, not to worry not to worry, we'll find the perfect wand— here—try this one— unusual combination— holly… nice and supple…"

Harry only has the wand in his hands for milliseconds before it's snatched away, thrown over Ollivander's shoulder. "No! I would of thought—," his large, misty eyes raise to Harry's forehead. He clicks his tongue.

"No matter— I always love a challenge— here this one—yes, even more strange — popular wood up in the North— there you go—"

Harry takes the wand. Hesitant in wrapping his fingers around it. The first wand he tried, mistletoe wood, had burned him. But this wand was much, much, much different. A cooling salve like aloe seems to cover his burn and, without a command, he twirls his wand, delighted to see a shower of sparks at the end.

"Excellent! Mr. Potter! Simply excellent! You've found your wand!" Ollivander says, clapping. "Ash, an eagle's feather for its core, 10 inches, slightly bendy. It is curious though…"

Curious? Harry feels like laughing. What could be more curious about his situation? Only yesterday he had been told he was wizard and magic was real, and now he has a wand.

"Curious?" he prods.

"An old man's ramblings!" Ollivander shakes him off, his misty-eyed stare darting away. "Come along, Mr. Potter, you can pay over here."

* * *

 

There he is, tied to Tom Riddle's grave, somewhere in a place that's been haunting his dreams for the entire year, unable to move. Cedric's body a few feet away from him. Dead. But he was alive just moments ago, talking to Harry. A concept he can barely wrap his head around.

A huge cauldron is in the middle of the graveyard. Wormtail has—had a squirming bundle —Voldemort—, an ugly, helpless form of Voldemort, he dropped It in. There's a fierce hope burning in Harry, he hopes Voldemort drowns.

 Wormtail adds ingredients to the cauldron, making some sort of sinister potion Harry's helpless to stop. _"Bone of your father; flesh of your servant"_ — that had been super disgusting to watch, Wormtail has put a whole new meaning of giving your body to your master— and, _blood of your enemy forcibly taken; you will_ …

Wormtail went to do that. His silver dagger sweeps up on Harry's chest, slicing his shirt, but it skims his skin, it doesn't make a cut. Wormtail furrows his dark brows, attempts again. There's no blood or anything.

The cauldron bubbles in the background.

Wormtail shrieks, running toward him like some maddened bull, his dagger in his remaining hand aimed straight at his stomach. Harry watches in morbid glee as the dagger hits his stomach and bends.

Wormtail looks at his dagger, a terrified gleam in his eyes. He throws it to the ground. He grabs his wand. "Diffindo!" he slashes his wand at Harry.

Nothing.

"Diffindo! Diffindo! Diffindo! _**Diffindo**_!" Wormtail is blind in aim as throws the charm at Harry, not caring where he hits as long as he hits. The problem is it's not hitting at all. The charm rebounds or dissipates just as he reaches Harry and, all these failed attempts have Harry laughing.

"You're going to have to try better than that!" he says, between gasping giggles. "Sirius did tell me you were the weakest of them and it shows."

Wormtail's face becomes a blotchy purple just like Uncle Vernon whenever he's done something that's "extra cheeky." A blinding purple light twisted in a puke-y green hurls toward him, for a moment, he's engulfed. In another moment, he finds himself being dropped to the cemetery ground.

No scratches. No nothing. Nada.

Another laugh escapes him. He grabs his wand out his jean pocket, darting to Cedric's body.

"Confringo!" Harry points his wand at the cauldron, watching as the black cauldron blasts into hundreds of thousands smithereens(Wormtail screeches). Harry would like to see Voldemort come back from that.

"Accio cup!"

The cup flies to his open hand, and they're gone.

Everything after that happens in a blur. They pry Cedric from his cold fingers. Mad-Eye Moody takes him to a room, talking to him in a demented mixup of babytalk and harshness, cruel and soft. Harry can't stop laughing.

The entire situation is absurd.

Through giggles he explains Wormtail's attempts at trying to cut him, trying to bring back… that… that… gruesome monster, but he prevailed by some guiding hand of Luck. He made Voldy go kaboom!

He cackles when Mad-Eye pales and backs away and, draws a wand on him, screaming nonsensical words because he killed his beloved master. All their hard work flushed down the toilet, he would avenge his master, he would kill him. There's the low grumble, "Avada K—"

Then, the red light of stupefy and Mad-Eye is knocked away.

Harry loses it.

His stomach hurts from so much laughter.

There is more talking. A show of pure power from Dumbledore, and he's being led away (yet again) to Dumbledore's office.

Fawkes gives him a trilling note. Sirius is there. An arm slings immediately around his shoulders, Harry is so, so tempted to just lean on him. But he won't. Through gentle prodding from Dumbledore, and suppressed snickers, he spills the beans.

Not that there are many to spill: Cedric died, kill the spare. Voldemort reduced to some helpless infant. Wormtail failed. He blasted Voldemort's incubator to the high heavens. End story.

Dumbledore looks disappointed, pressing him: "Is that all Harry? Did Wormtail say anything alarming, out of the norm?"

Harry shrugs, the grin he's kept throughout the entire evening dims. "No, nothing," he lies.

Dumbledore sighs, the wrinkles on his face carve deep. He, Sirius (in dog form), and him finally go down to medic wing where Madam Pomfrey pounces on Harry, ushering him into the nearest bed. Dumbledore shoos the entire Weasley Family, Hermione, Fudge, and McGonagall. Then, he himself takes his leave.

He's grateful for that.

Madam Pomfrey sets a purple potion by his bedside. "Sleeping potion, three spoonfuls," she says, voice soft and soothing. It's different from her forward mollycoddling. She senses he needs alone time. He's grateful for that too. She draws soft blue curtains around his bed. Sirius rests his head on the mattress.

He waits to the count of five. He even casts a muffling charm around him and Sirius before he fully relaxes. He turns to his godfather.

_What a time to realize things._

He knows he is no Hermione. However, that doesn't make him a Goyle either.

Sirius bumps his wet nose against Harry's open palm. His grey eyes shine with concern. Harry sighs. Any amusement he had about the whole situation is gone, there are no more laughs to be had.

"D'you know there's a basilisk in the Forbidden Forest? I released it after the whole Chamber of Secrets fiasco, Voldemort tried to make it kill me. But it said the most mental thing: _my brethren made a promise not to harm this one._ Remus bit me last year; yeah, you came upon us just a bit too late and he bit me, or tried to bite me, but it was sorta gummy, lotsa saliva. No sharp teeth? The bite didn't go through, I'm obviously not a werewolf… and, Wormtail," Sirius growls, low and threatening. "Tried to cut me with a silver knife. It went all bendy when it hit my skin; he tried cutting spells too… not a scratch…

"And, one time I was seven…" he shakes his head against the pillow. That's a story for another time.

He twists around to grab the purple potion, takes a three spoonfuls like prescribed (it taste like cough syrup), and he slips into a deep sleep.

He has that dream again, his most cherished dream.

He's in a place. A hall.

A gleaming roof covered in shining gold; heady, boisterous laughter and a great many people at long tables, covered in armor, ruby blood like paint splashed over their skin and clothes. Their many, many weapons lay all over the floor, they laugh and eat, eat and laugh. There are bloody steaks cut from the huge boar, spit-roasted in the middle above a blazing hot flame. The sharp spicy scent of honeyed mead fills the air.

The hall is so big and open. Long columns that spiral up to the night sky, small crackling fires in the middle, animal skins on the tiled floors and women. These women are long-haired and covered in armor just as the men. They lean against spears, hold bloody knives and swords in their hands, axes lain across their laps like froufrou dogs. All of them wear a sultry smile, atop their heads are large helmets with flaring, iron wings. These women laugh as loudly as the men, telling stories of their own battles won.

There's excitement in Harry. He wants to join in too. He wants to come down from his place —somewhere high, where he can see everything— and he drops his own little sword and reaches out; his hands are small and chubby,

"What's this?" someone booms as they pick him up. Bright blue eyes like a summer's sky lock unto him. A flash of a red cloak. "You want to join in with the Warriors! You'll have to wait a few more years yet!"

He thinks the owner of the blue eyes laughs and maybe tosses him in the air.

And then, he awakes for a lucid minute or two at most, inexplicable longing fills him to the brim threatening to drown him, because he feels… he feels as if he's forgetting something important.

Something that he can't even put a name too. A fading dream on the tip of his tongue. His eyes sting. He sniffs once, eyes landing on Sirius, curled at the bottom of his bed, before he twists over and sleeps again.

He dreams of nothing.

* * *

 

Back-to-back against Sirius, on a raised obsidian ledger, Harry is buzzing with energy; he's never felt more alive. His wand is out, sweaty against his hand. As fast as he's yelling spells, he's deflecting them.

Voldemort's merry men are like cockroaches, just as Harry's cast another body-binding spell there's another silver mask popping up. "Atta-boy, Harry!" Sirius says, his eyes wild.

The swell of pride is short-lived. A breathy laugh that echoes through the large room, it's pitchy and deranged like the Hatter.

"COUSIN SIRI!"

Harry spins around, taking a step next to Sirius. His wand trains on the insane witch, on Bellatrix. Sirius takes another step, an arm flung in front of Harry like a boundary.

"Run!"

"Sirius—"

"ICKY MUDBLOOD! THIS IS BETWEEN FAMILY!" she punctuates the words with a flick of her wand. A vicious stream of purple light.

Sirius deflects. A grin pulls at his lips. "I can handle this Harry, go!"

Harry moves half a step back. He'll be there, just in case. Around them the battle rages on. Members of the Order fight with Death Eaters. Harry tries to pull his attention into six, keeping track of: Ron, Hermione, Neville, Luna, Ginny, and Sirius.

He helps where he can. A _stupefy_ here, a _petrificus totalus_ there, flings of _reducto_ …

"Surely, you can do better than that Bella! You didn't blow Moldyshorts for nothin'!"

"Insolent cur!" Bellatrix's voice reaches to new heights.

Harry's never been so grateful for his reflexes. He's moving around Sirius, pushing him away, and taking Bellatrix's nasty whatever. It succeeds in making him step back, frozen for mere seconds. His back is close to the Veil, cold whispers in his ear, colder fingers wrap around his back: _lost son, greatest brightest son among all; all the creatures cried for you, lost lost lost, come back…_

Sirius yanks him forward.

Harry blinks up at him, glasses askew. What the bloody hell just happened? He only has a second of reprieve before Bellatrix shrieks at him, rivaling a banshee. Sirius fixes his glasses. "Are you okay?"

"Fine."

Bellatrix screeches. Green streaks of light thrown like darts has both him and Sirius vaulting from the ledge, dodging.

"Uh oh, I think we've made her mad," Sirius faux-whispers, giggling madly. His black eyes alit in unparalleled delight. For the first time, Harry sees the madness in his godfather too. He wonders if this is a trait found in all Blacks.

Sirius pops up, back into the fray he goes. Harry has no choice. He follows.

* * *

 

Harry never makes it back to Privet Drive.

The fight in the ministry marks the start of the war.

Voldemort survived the Triwizard Tournament. He is back stronger than ever. Dumbledore (before he dies) explains, he has gathered all his Horcruxes, all his disgusting soul pieces refitted in him like a puzzle.

Students begin to leave, one by one.

Harry, Hermione, Ron, and Dumbledore Army's, anyone that can hold a wand—anyone that decides to stay— is trained. Hogwarts is no longer a safe place, they are learning to defend…if it comes down to it, _kill_.

Voldemort sends his followers (not just Death Eaters: werewolves, vampires, giants, etc) on paths of destruction, total war. He wipes out wizarding communities. He tortures muggles; every morning there are stories splashed across the front of the Daily Prophet, Aurors vs Death Eaters. The death toll climbs.

For two long years, Harry is consumed by it.

And then, it comes to a head. The Battle of Hogwarts.

Voldemort calls for Harry in sweet, serpentine hisses. His whispers, somehow infiltrating his innermost thoughts: he could stop all this, everything, he only has to give himself to Lord Voldemort.

All the war, all the death, all the bitterness and sadness can be gone. He only has serve himself like a Christmas goose.

Harry can do that. He _does_ do that.

He breaks away and rushes into the Forbidden Forest. There are no tearful goodbyes to be had. There's a pang in his chest at the thought of his family crying for him—his death, but this is for the best.

Voldemort waits in deepest parts of the Forest. His inner circle feet behind him.

Voldemort stands there, clothed in black robes. Misted around the edges like his form in the Chamber. He is the ghost of Tom Riddle Junior. Tall, translucent pale-white, with cruel, glittering brown eyes rimmed with red; glossy jet-black hair combed back. Harry thinks he looks like a statue carved by the ancient sculptor, a detached coldness in his beauty.

"Ah, Harry Potter," he says. "The boy who has come to die." The peanut gallery jeers behind him.

"Yes Tom," he says. "But before we do the whole killing thing— for like the hundredth time, I lost count after your botched attempt during fourth year—," he's careful not to grin at Voldemort's curling sneer. "I have a couple of requests."

"Mudmonkey, you dare!" Bellatrix snarls at him, her wand already poised, but Voldemort raises his hand.

"Your requests? Lord Voldemort dispenses kindness on worthy foes."

Harry resists the urge to snort, or to say: I request you stop speaking in third person.

He bites his tongue, shaking his head. "No going after Hogwarts students, teachers and their families, whether they are muggleborn, half blood, or pureblood. That includes your lot." He nods at the Death Eaters.

"If they do not stand in my way, no harm shall come to them, from Lord Voldemort or my followers."

Harry eyes him. He supposes that's fair. "Swear on your magic."

Voldemort's eyes widen. He frowns. "You go too far, boy. Lord Voldemort keeps all promises."

This time, Harry does snort. "D'you swear or not. If you don't, I will go back to Hogwarts. The meeting is over. I'd love to see you try to kill me."

This is not cockiness. It's been a long two years. He has been on the tail-end of too many spells, too many situations, that should've ended his life, but here he is. No scratches or scars. Maybe a skewed sense of preservation; that's another story.

Voldemort does it, through clenched teeth, he does it.

"Another request," Harry says innocently.

"Lord Voldemort's patience wears thin."

"It's good, I promise."

Voldemort doesn't respond.

"Use mistletoe when you kill me."

Voldemort immediately transfigures a twig into a long-standing spear, a bush of mistletoe tagged around knife's end. It floats beside him. Voldemort eyes Harry speculatively, like he wants to say something more. Perhaps, the cliched any last words?

"Goodbye, Harry Potter."

Voldemort points his wand at Harry, and with it, the spears flies straight to stomach, piercing him front-to-back. Dying is a messy business, there's an acute amount of pain, particularly where the bush rests against bare skin. He's feels like he's burning, and he knows he coughing up blood, lots of it.

The last thing he sees is Voldemort's triumphant red eyes.

He's dying one moment. In the next, he's not. He's somewhere else entirely. Yup, he cranes his head around. He's not in the Forbidden Forest anymore.

He's in a very large, very elaborate banquet hall, seated at the head of the table. All the chairs are empty. It puts Hogwarts to shame. There are floating candles, flickering with green flame. The food laid out before him is quite frankly a feast. The walls are black-blue, they shine like glittering diamonds, and there are mountains of weaponry from across all ages, the floor covered in thick, low-laying mist like a dry-ice machine has gone erratic… he can't place a name. Strange to say, but there is a sense of familiarity, like he has visited once before…

"You're not supposed to be here," someone says.

"It's not like I came here on purpose…" his voice dies when he faces the source. It's a woman, who has somehow materialized to the left of him. He struggles to be polite.

She's not ugly.

Just different.

He tries to keep his eyes on the upper half of her body. Er, the normal part. Her upper-half is like a regal Merope Riddle. The same gloomy, appearance. Her small pale eyes shine bright with intelligence, and she holds her head like a queen, staring down at Harry as if he is a mere ant.

 _Should I crush you?_ she seems to ask.

"Who are you?"

"Harry Potter."

He braces for the expected. The adoration or the hate. The inevitable gushing, or the spit of distaste. And yet, he receives nothing from the woman he's facing. No gleam of recognition in her eyes, only indifference.

"No, you're not."

Oh. He gets it. She's one of those people. The type who think they know him from his head to his toes.

"Look, I am Harry James Potter, I don't much care if you believe me or not, but," he swipes back his black hair to show her his scar. "I have the scar, and I would appreciate if you tell me how I got here."

Somehow, a white spear ends up in her hands. She stabs him in the chest. Or well, she attempts to stab him, the spear bounces away.

Her expression doesn't change.

"Harry James Potter, son of Lily and James Potter, died the night of October 31st of the Midgard year nineteen-hundred-eighty-one anno domini when Tom Marvolo Riddle cast the killing curse."

"No, Boy-Who-Lived; haven't you heard and stabbing people is incredibly rude—."

"Frigga cried for days," the woman continues, like he hasn't said a word. "Her wails echoing throughout the realms. Odin, all-seeing all-powerful, could not see where he had gone. Thor pushed into such fury—berserker state, slaying all that came near him. He could not be coaxed out of it."

There's a prickly sensation in Harry. His fingers twitch. The hair on his neck raises.

"That's bad, miss, truly. I don't see how that anything to do with me. If I could just be directed out…"

"My father wove a spell so strong that it fooled nearly the whole of the Nine Realms. Frigga and Odin only have two sons, Loki and Thor. There was never a baby."

"…" Harry wants to leave, he wants to go, but he can't find it in himself to stand. His lips move, there are no protests heard.

"But there was. They loved their youngest son, Balder, so very, very much. All of the realms did. They sent their best ambassadors to see his birth. He was the most beloved in all the kingdoms. The fairest, the most gracious he was supposed to grow up to be.

"Frigga in her boundless motherly love extracted a promise from every animate and inanimate object in the Nine Realms to never harm her most beloved summer child. Except, she glossed over one meaningless little plant…"

"Mistletoe," Harry finishes for her.

This is an insane story. He can't be… a lost-child… he is Harry James Potter, son of Lily and James, and yet it makes sense. It explains so much, but so little.

"My scar?"

The woman shrugs, a smile playing on her lips. "Somehow you had been burned by the juice of mistletoe. Freyjr and I, nearly had it out on who was it that got to carry your soul to one of our realms. I suppose your Father would've gotten you in the end."

"And where are we?"

She raises her pencil-thin brows. "Hel."

Oh.

"And you are?"

"Your niece, Hel."

"Pardon?" he splutters, she didn't say what he thinks she just she said; right?

"Your older brother, Loki; my father," she waves her hand, like the fact is unimportant. "You aren't supposed to be here."

"If this is the place where people go after they die, then, yeah, I am."

His apparent niece has an excellent poker face. "I know where you are now," she studies him. "Father will be glad you've picked up seidr."

"What are you talking about…"

She opens her hand, and once again, her spear-now-staff is in-hand. White as bone, she holds it for the moment. Her pale-stare focuses on him. "Father will be coming for you soon, Uncle. Be mindful."

She quirks her grey lips, and then, she's banging her staff. Nine times.

Harry doesn't get another word in.

Next thing he knows he's being thrown to the hard ground, his stomach smarting like hell. A low groan escapes him.

He slowly opens his eyes seeing dark, grey skies. There are loud sounds on either side of him. Comets of multicolored light flying left and right.

"SILENCE!"

Voldemort.

"This is your example; this is what happens to those that go against Lord V—!"

Voldemort never gets to finish. Harry sits up and points his wand directly at Voldemort, "Avada Kedavra."

A shot of sickly-green zips from Harry's wand to Lord Voldemort.

Voldemort falls down; dead.

That's the end of that.

He lies.

It's the end of Voldemort, but it doesn't mean it's the end of the War. There's still the Battle of Hogwarts where it takes five of them to put down Voldemort's mad bitch, Bellatrix. They have to put a stopper on all of Voldemort's marginally less-insane lackeys on the battlefield.

After that, there are tears that come from the survivors'. The numbness that permeates as Harry helps levitate the dead, one by one: woman, men, and children, all into the Great Hall, where there is a frantic dash to identify them.

Harry's sure he will never forget Mrs. Weasley's wailing at the sight of both Fred and George, dead; or Sirius' low whimper at he sinks to his knees, when he sees Remus' still body, or how he pretends to take no notice of the little corner of the Great Hall where Neville's eyes are wide, unseeing… Professor McGonagall laying beside him, half her-body blackened.

Then, the months after where Harry can't help enlisting into the auror program despite Ginny's biting comments that he doesn't owe the WW a damned thing. He gave them too much already, and maybe she's right, but there's still some inkling that this is all his fault. That it's his duty to fix and heal all the hurt Voldemort spread. So, he does. It's simple like that.

(Sometimes, he likes to think about his dream, the one he had where he died, he likes to think, real or fake, that he has a family out there. A mother and father; brothers.)

Harry catches as many criminals as he can. He speaks, voice catching always, at all the funerals, all the memorials, everything they invite _Harry Potter_ too. He gives a chunk of money to charities set up. It's the least he can do.

And if he has nightmares about the callous way he killed Voldemort, about the tens of those that died in his stead, protecting him— so what? He shrugs it off. It matters little. There is still so, so much more he can do.

Until.

Until, his boss says otherwise. He forces Harry to take time off.

He's at home in Grimmauld Place, staring at the ceiling, blowing out. He feels like a kid that's been grounded. Unfairly, he should add. He knows his limits. He knows when he works too hard. He's never compromised anything. He makes sure he's in tiptop shape before he ever goes out, he turns in all paperwork on time. He never lets his personal emotions bleed into his work. He's cordial to everyone. So why, in the seven layers, has he been assigned a break?

He wants to work, whether it is in the office, or the field.

It's only been three days, and he's going stir crazy. All his friends were busy with their lives and, wanking had quickly lost its appeal.

He inhales.

He exhales.

There's a thunderous crackle like lightning that zaps into his room.

He sits up in bed. His wand instantly pointed in front of him. "Incarcerous," at his lips. A thick beam of light is shooting down from somewhere, and just as it appears, it's gone. In its place stands a man.

Tall, slender, with shoulder-length oil-black hair and bright, green eyes. He's regal in appearance with his whole green and gold scheme. Harry's comfortable enough in his sexuality to admit that the bloke's sexy as sin.

Too bad, this guy wasn't around a couple of years earlier. Harry can only guess how that meeting would've gone down.

"Who are you?" he says, his wand still on the mysterious man. "How did you get passed the wards?"

The man blinks at him, owl-eyed, lips pursed. "Your pathetic Midgardian attempts at wards cannot keep me out."

Harry grips his wand. Great. A narcissist. He _loves_ those. "Look, I'm not going to ask again. Who are you and how did you get pass the wards?"

The man leans forward, he rests his arms on the bed's footboard, giving him a surprisingly gentle smile. "Don't you recognize me, brother? I kept watch over you day and night."

He holds the man's stare unflinchingly, ignoring the curl in his belly and the whine of affirmation in his head that he does know the man. His gut instincts never lead him astray, still…

_"Your older brother; my father… will be coming for you soon, Uncle. Be mindful."_

"Loki," he says, trying the name out. "You're… you're my brother, older brother, Loki, yeah?"

"Yes," the man says, coming to sit on his bed. Harry's wand never wavers. "You do remember."

He shakes his head. "I just remember my… er, niece Hel warning me about your visiting; why are you here?"

Of course, there are other questions like how did you find me; what was that strange light; where did you come from; this, that, and the third. Why seems most important. His questionnaire can wait a few seconds.

Loki throws his head back, laughs. He's startled by the sharpness, more of a single note, before Loki's green eyes darken, fixating back on him.

"I've come to take you home."

**Author's Note:**

> Also posted under StackofStories on Fanfiction.
> 
> Big thanks to Mondhase and RandomasRainbows.


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